Our meal began with an aperitif of home-made cider spiked with cassis, served with little toasts of goose confit. This was swiftly followed by a broad and delicate tart of shredded leeks baked in butter, presented with the white and green parts separated in concentric circles like a verdant target. As the crumbs were cleared away, a hunk of beef, bloody and charred from the makeshift barbecue arrived at the table to be eaten with rustic yellow bread and cucumber salad in a mustard-flavoured cream. Our children ran around the yard chasing cats and chickens, only returning to the table long enough to wolf down a lump of rare meat or suck down some slices of cucumber. Cheese came next, pungent and goaty, and just as we thought we could manage no more, a bowlful of yogurt, sweetened with a spoonful of cider syrup, came as a finale to a perfect supper.

This was the first day of our farm holiday in France, spent sitting outside a 300-year-old farmhouse in the balmy evening sunshine listening to the crickets begin their twilight roundelay. The elders were flowering in great snowy drifts, the fields were bloody with the vermillion splashes of wild poppies and the air had that sweet, fecund smell that suggests summer has arrived at last; and it was all the more enjoyable because we were not in the far South of France but much closer to home, in Normandy, in the Pays du Perche.

The Perche is a hidden corner at the southern-most tip of the Orne region where the Norman landscape transforms from vast cereal flats to wooded hills and small fields edged with copse and tree-filled hedgerow. In ancient times, the Perche was one vast forest and it retains a sense of wilderness in the abundant woodlands between the farmland. Wild boars still roam free here.

We were staying, all bunked up together, in a large gable roofed granary, at La Pichardière Equestrian Farm and that first meal was a fortuitous beginning to what was to become a delightful old-fashioned farm holiday - horse riding and fabulous home cooking combined with protracted ambles around the countryside having picnics and collecting bags of local produce to take back home.

The next morning was a Saturday so we set off for the weekly market in the small town of Nogent-Le-Rotrou. The square was filled with flowers as the Normans take as much pride in their gardens as the English and our daughter immediately buried her nose in a great clump of flowering thyme which we bought to perfume the car for only 60 cents. Everything was bountiful: dozens of wild boar hams and sausages, deep barrels of oysters, luscious cuts of ruby red meat, real farm chickens with lilac skin and wonderful pâtés that obviously came straight from someone's kitchen - sold by the slice in a selection of old dishes, from glazed blue heirlooms to utility Tupperware. We stopped, alerted by the queue of 20 shoppers, beside a 3m high rotisserie and decided on a spontaneous picnic. Typically, we had brought nothing with us, so my partner ran off to buy a knife and bread while we waited in line for fresh roast chicken and sliced potatoes cooked in the dripping.

The picnic was spent in the Jardin François, a four seasons garden that melts into the surrounding meadows of wild flowers. In May, the herb garden was dominated by a mass of purpley allium balls amid iris and blue-flowering mint, but the more structured rose garden really grabbed the attention as a blousy mix of vibrant pink, red and orange azaleas, roses, peonies and poppies inspired me to fill my garden with the same. Everywhere we went, we were offered refreshing glasses of Normandy cider, sweeter than ours and much more drinkable; like a potent apple juice. A particularly good one was offered here by Giles, who took obvious pleasure in the landscape he farmed around the garden and delighted the girls by making them floppy rabbit ears from velveteen leaves.

Back at La Pichardière, I went on an afternoon ride. I haven't sat on a horse for 18 years but I had a confident teacher and within 10 minutes I was hacking through the woods, chatting away. Valerie and Marc Baillon bought the farm when they decided to settle in the country with their two children, combining their passion for horses (they met on a stud farm and Marc races trotters) with the recultivation of 90 acres of abandoned farmland. They grow wheat without ploughing and 10% of the land is set aside for their eight horses, cattle and poultry. On our return, our daughters (three years and 22 months) insisted on choosing the biggest horses possible for their ride and sat, thrilled, in the saddles unaided as we led them on a walk around the hills peppered with poppies. They slept like lambs that night after feasting on the last of the wild boar that Marc's brother had shot on their land recently.

Marc, owns only two cookery books - L'Art Culinaire Moderne 1962 and the cookbook of the Troisgros restaurant in central France - and his superb cooking was an unexpected bonus that made it difficult to leave the farm and eat anywhere else. Somehow, we managed and over the next few days we moseyed around the countryside on empty roads, passing pretty villages of pale limestone and sandy mortar, walled manors and turreted dovecotes. Whenever we spied an interesting sign, we would follow it and arrive somewhere hidden and intriguing. This led us to meet an interesting collection of people who had a complete passion for what they did in life, and a strong sense of pride for the rural Perche.

By following Les Escargots du Perche we ended up in the garden of Phillippe Courvreur for over two hours while he captivated us with the life-cycle of the edible snail. With unabashed enthusiasm, he informed us of their mating rituals. "Each species makes love in a different position, like this," he effused, clamping two molluscs together head to tail, "or this," as he contorted them another way before bursting out with fervour, "they are hermaphrodites with both male and female sex organs. They are magnificent animals! Are they not?" And with waving arms he sped on to other amazing snail facts. We left with a pot of home-produced snail terrine and a new respect for this little creature of which the French eat 35,000 tons a year.

We arrived on baking day at La Grande Suardière in La Perrière - to watch Thierry, goggle-eyed and thin as a bread stick, lever his plaits of four-seed bread from the oven on a 4m paddle with the ease of an Olympian oarsman. People come from over 60km away to buy his pain bio à l'ancienne and several arrived behind us, loading up with five or six loaves at a time to last the week. Dominic at the nearby cider farm was just as vibrant, and he positively bounced when talking of his various brews, particularly, his ultra-strong 58% calvados which he makes in honour of his grandfather who used to exclaim "40%? Pa! It is too sweet!", insisting that they used to drink it at 65% or more back in the good old days.

It was fun to stay on a farm and explore an unspoilt area where few tourists bother to go. There was no television or themed entertainment; just good people, agricultural life and rustic fare.

On our last night, we were invited to join the family for a celebration dinner party marking the first holy communion of their daughter, Fanny. The priest arrived and we sat down for a glass of champagne, snail vol-au-vonts and the best pink foie gras (home made, of course) I've had in a long while. Next came a small portion of brill in a light custard which clarified the palette in readiness for the roast goose to come. "Do people eat this well in England?" asked a guest with a sly smile as the bird arrived. "Of course they do," snapped Valerie trying not to offend. "Oh yes," chipped in Marc's brother jovially, passing a crisp green salad, "All they have to do is find the nearest French restaurant." Some things never change.

Way to go

Getting there: For a week return in June, Brittany Ferries (08705 360360) takes two adults and two children under three Portsmouth-Caen for £130 (£270 with car). A week's car hire with pick-up from Caen ferry port costs from £148.64. through Europcar (0870 6075000).

Where to stay:Ferme Equestre La Pichardière, Ceton, Normandy (+2 37 29 26 49), €78 for a family of four. Riding: €13pp for one hour, €30 for half a day, €60 for a day (including lunch). The Balade weekend package includes one night's B&B, evening meal, four hours' riding, €80pp.